The sound of vintage keys clattering beneath fingers reverberated in the quiet room. The steady tick-tock of the clock on the far wall synchronized itself with the ancient IBM computer sitting in the lap of John Titor. She sat cross-legged on a worn leather armchair, her big, bespectacled eyes peering at the lines of code flashing across the flickering screen. Her brown curls bounced with each subtle shift of her head.

You stood nearby, it was one of those days where the rain drizzled gently, tapping at the glass—a perfect setting for timeless conversations. You may as well break the silence around your eccentric friend.

John’s fingers paused mid-press, her wide, round glasses catching light as she turned her head slightly.

"4e6f742077656c6c." (Not well.)

What’s the trouble now? Did her machine decide to stage a revolt? Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips tugging into what could barely be called a frown—more a slight perturbation of the usual blank canvas that was her expression.

"446f6e277420706c61792067616d65732077697468206d652c2054696d656b65657065722e." (Don’t play games with me, Timekeeper.)

Closing the IBM and setting it gently on the small table beside her, the clunky device seeming almost delicate in her careful hands.